


we pulled too many false alarms

by fideliant



Series: slow dancing in a burning room [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Chair Sex, Clothed Sex, Courtship, Declarations Of Love, French Kissing, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Illnesses, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Miscommunication, Oral Sex, Pining, Slow Build, Touching, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-16
Updated: 2014-07-16
Packaged: 2018-02-09 04:30:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1969146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fideliant/pseuds/fideliant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo gnawed at his lower lip, mentally weighing the pros and cons of coming clean there and then. Pros — it’d be a massive weight off his chest, and there could even be a pity lay in there for him if he managed to seem sufficiently desperate and Thorin was feeling charitable. Cons…</p>
<p>Well, Thorin would <i>know.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	we pulled too many false alarms

**Author's Note:**

> HEY GUYS it's plot with porn. Whaddaya know. XD

_[♫ John Mayer - Slow Dancing In A Burning Room](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IfFi4Q7ueA8)_

***

Bilbo Baggins had a problem.

It wasn’t anything severe, but it proved bothersome nonetheless. Being a proper hobbit meant resolving matters as and when they arose, and having been raised in it, Bilbo was used to a particular level of order. He liked having things fit together impeccably before him — seven regular meals, evenly-buttered bread, bathwater at just the right temperature, things like that.

So, the problem was this: in addition to all that, he was private by nature. Don’t get him wrong — he enjoyed company, but usually only when it was on his terms. He had the capacity to be hospitable beyond what was often expected of hosts, and visitors were always as welcome as the next person. Visitors being people Bilbo invited over for a meal, or some afternoon tea, or perhaps to try out a fresh batch of pipe-weed. Not a rowdy crowd of thirteen dwarves barging in and eating him out of house and home.

But enough about things in the past. Point being, he was somewhat reserved, tended to be wary of strangers, and didn’t quite like to be touched, thank you very much. Handshakes were fine, whereas a tap on the shoulder bordered on downright uncomfortable. Personal space was always paramount, his and that of other people. He wasn’t the kind to seek out a connection deeper than words could bridge, anyway.

Which was why — ah. Thorin.

Thorin, Thorin, Thorin.

Thorin Oakenshield, who had shown up on his doorstep all dashing-like, spoken down to him repeatedly, and later embraced Bilbo and named him kin. Never mind that nasty business with the Arkenstone — things in the past, of course — they’d both very nearly perished in the resulting battle, so there was that. Regaining consciousness in the same infirmary as Thorin was an exercise in mixed feelings, and Bilbo wasn’t up for having that sort of conflict in his life at the time.

Three weeks on, he still hardly devoted too much thought to almost having died, or how he should be feeling with regard to Thorin, even. Which was…strange, he supposed, in contrast to what he mused about on a daily basis. How long it would be before he was home, for example, or what was going to happen now that everything had changed. And the other, stranger things Bilbo contemplated — Thorin reaching for him down the side of a precipice; Thorin’s warm, strong embrace; Thorin’s hands on his body — well.

Certainly, the latter weren’t thoughts any respectable hobbit should be having. He had them regardless, and felt out of sorts for it. Eventually he trained himself to shake them, to redirect his focus back to matters of actual consequence. There were more important things to worry about; they had refugees to house and a kingdom to rebuild, after all, and being distracted was the last thing he needed when everyone else was doing their best to contribute.

Bilbo still couldn’t help but think about Thorin’s hands, though, remembered the rough, exquisite quality of them against his skin, and how they would feel if he touched them.

He thought an awful lot about touching them.

***

“…and if there’s anything you ever need,” Balin was saying as he held the door open for Bilbo to walk through, “my room’s just down the corridor, first one on the left. Or you could give the stewards a holler, and they’ll come running along, quick as winking.”

Bilbo took a moment to scrutinise what were supposed to be his new living quarters. The interior of the room was enormous, even bigger than his kitchen and living room in Bag End combined, and had large windows framed with solid gold. In fact, everything seemed to have some amount of gold in it, from the flecks in the marble flooring to the candlesticks on the mantelpiece to the threading of the dusty curtains. An impressive mural of a fruit garden sprawled across the ceiling high above them, and similar still-lifes in tarnished silver frames adorned the walls. There were several assorted tables and chairs and shelves about the room, but no sign of a usable bed.

“It’s a bit…er,” Bilbo said, swallowing and heaving his knapsack a little higher up his back. He shook his head to gather himself and glanced at Balin. “Where’s the bed?”

“Oh, the bedroom’s through there.” Balin gestured vaguely towards the back of the room, and ah, yes, Bilbo could see the outline of a set of double-doors between a tall painting and a large mirror on the adjoining wall. “This is the study. We haven’t yet had a bathroom fitted in, unfortunately, so you’ll have to use the common one for the time being. If that’s alright with you, of course.”

Bilbo swallowed some more, and blinked at the room — study, was it? For a single person it was absolutely _huge,_ and it made Bilbo a little afraid to think about how big the bedroom was going to be, or what it looked like — not at all sure what to say.

“It’s a bit much,” he finally said, which was the only way to put it, really. “Isn’t there anywhere else I could stay?”

It was Balin’s turn to look troubled. “Is it not to your liking?”

“Oh, no, no, I didn’t mean it like — it’s not that I. I was only. Erm.” Bilbo inhaled and puffed it out, running a hand through his curly hair. “It’s splendid, it really is, but. Something simpler would be just fine. I don’t need, well.” He gestured at the drapes, the towering ceiling, the finery of it all. “You understand,” he said, albeit as apologetically as he could. “You’ve seen what Bag End’s like.”

Balin smiled. “Aye. T’was rather quaint.”

“Quaint’s good. Nothing wrong with quaint,” Bilbo said, nodding affirmatively. “This looks like somewhere a king would sleep.”

“Thorin’s quarters are only a little smaller than this, laddie,” Balin said with a wink. “And he hasn’t been crowned king just yet.”

Bilbo raised an eyebrow, quizzical. “Shouldn’t Thorin have this room, then?”

Balin’s smile grew fractionally wider. “The instruction to put you up here came from him, as it happens.”

Bilbo stared at the room again, then back at Balin, who shrugged and handed over a set of keys. “For the front door, the bedroom, and I think those are for the cabinets,” Balin said, pointing them out one at a time. “I could help you unpack and straighten up, if you’d like…?”

“I’ll be alright by myself,” Bilbo said quickly, clutching the keys to his chest. Keys to an astonishingly luxurious set of chambers that made him feel very, very spoilt indeed. No need to make a fuss about it in front of Balin. Perhaps he could talk to Thorin later, assuming Bilbo found a way to get a hold of him. It was becoming incredibly difficult to do so nowadays, what with so much going on with Erebor and the rate at which it was getting back on its feet. Looking out past the battlements and the streams of people coming and going at the gates, Bilbo already found it hard to imagine that the kingdom had been war-torn not two months prior.

“If you say so,” Balin said, and wished Bilbo good-day with a polite bow.

The next few hours were not spent unpacking; rather, Bilbo busied himself with cleaning the study, tidying whatever he could manage. He did peek into the bedroom, which proved to be more extravagant than the study in spite of its disuse. Clearly the dwarves of old had more gold than they knew what to do with, but some things just seemed flat-out silly to have. What possible use had one for a golden scrubbing brush and wash basin, anyway? To wash other expensive things, Bilbo supposed, and he allowed a small chuckle at the thought. He wouldn’t put it past the obscenely wealthy to think such a laughable concept necessary.

Thorin entered a short while later without knocking, clearing his throat loudly to indicate his presence and startling Bilbo, who was inspecting an empty bookshelf at the far end of the room. “Oh,” Bilbo said, whirling around and nearly losing his footing. “I wasn’t, um. Expecting you. Balin didn’t say anything.”

“I thought to check on you.” Thorin’s eyes swept the room as he crossed it, the look in them mildly approving until they settled on Bilbo’s untouched knapsack. “You have not yet unpacked,” he observed gruffly.

“Ah. Yes. That,” Bilbo began, fingers starting to fidget. There was a direct approach to this certainly, but… “I was actually wondering, Thorin, if it’s at all possible —”

“You would like a different room?”

“Yes please,” Bilbo blurted, his words spilling out faster than he could think, and he kicked himself mentally for having allowed that to happen. He of all people knew better than to be careless about the things he said in front of Thorin, for reasons including and beyond the dwarf’s predilection to readily take offence. “What I mean is, this is marvellous, it really is, but, oh. Gods know I appreciate it, but you really shouldn’t have, Thorin. I’d be quite alright living someplace less grand than this.”

To Bilbo’s surprise, Thorin didn’t glower, or glare at him, or appear affronted in any way. He looked at Bilbo strangely and frowned, eyebrows creasing in the centre of his forehead. Just as Bilbo was worrying that it would’ve probably been a better idea to take the room and not say anything at all, Thorin moved up to him and laid a hand on his shoulder.

Bilbo blinked, and gulped, and pressed his lips together. He hoped with all his heart that Thorin couldn’t feel it pounding — he didn’t want to have to explain _that._

“I believe there may be more suitable rooms elsewhere,” Thorin said, his expression still stern, eyes soft, his hand a pleasant weight, his grip firm but gentle. There was just enough light in the room to bring out the silver in his hair, and Bilbo realised he quite liked the sight of Thorin like that, regal and aged, handsome. He tried his hardest not to look at Thorin’s mouth, and willed himself to continue holding Thorin’s gaze. “There is one closer to mine which you might prefer. It’s…smaller, if that is what you require.”

“I think that’ll be just right,” Bilbo murmured, wondering if Thorin’s conception of _smaller_ was to be trusted. If he ended up turning Thorin down a second time — no. Not an option. Perish the thought.

“I’ll see that it’s prepared for your residence within the hour.” With a curt nod, Thorin released Bilbo’s shoulder and stepped away. “Speak with Balin. I’ll tell him to bring you there, once it’s ready.”

Bilbo thought to protest — that he’d be fine making his way there on his own, even though he had no idea where Thorin’s room was — but reconsidered. Instead, he watched Thorin close the door behind him, stared at the back of it for a while, and walked to the centre of the study, where his bulging knapsack stood upright on the floor, and then flopped down on it with a sigh, propping his chin up on the back of his hand as he did so, feeling oddly contented.

***

It was decided — Thorin’s coronation would take place at the end of the month.

Almost instantly, Erebor was consumed in a flurry of activity. Autumn was ending and with it the last of reconstructions, settling the kingdom comfortably into its prime. Dwarves bustled about everywhere, making preparations and setting up decorations, a lot (all) of which included an overwhelming amount of gold (of course). Much to his annoyance, Bilbo often ended up being shooed from common areas by said dwarves when he stopped to admire the fixtures put up; he thought they were rather nice, that was all, and what exactly was wrong with appreciating being a part of this for just one moment?

It felt quietly surreal, being the only hobbit slated to attend. Bilbo supposed it was something he could brag about, not that anyone back home would believe him if he did.

The excitement of the impending coronation peaked a number of days before the actual event, and Bilbo was quickly placed at the mercy of a group of other dwarves who were very knowledgeable about clothes and accessories and how to accoutre people with them. There was a moment as he stood pensively with his arms spread, dwarves measuring him for this and that for the umpteenth time, a number of silk garments draped over him, that he imagined himself the one to be crowned king for all the fussing over what he was going to wear, exactly how he was going to wear it, and what people would think of him when he did.

“I think gold would be a good look,” said one dwarf, glaring at Bilbo’s belly. “Gold overcoat, silk tunic, and a vest with sapphire embroidery. Brings out the eyes.”

“Don’t be daft,” squeaked another. “That’s too far from the eyes. If you want sapphires, make it a choker. Or a lariat.”

“I don’t see why we cannot have both,” a third interjected loudly from over Bilbo’s shoulder. “But if you’re that concerned about distance, it’s a coronet you want.”

“That’s overdoing it! There must be some variety, you see…”

“Rubies? Braid em’ through his hair, see how it goes —”

“You’re loony if you think you can braid _this._ ” Lariat-dwarf tugged lightly at a clump of Bilbo’s hair, and Bilbo ground his teeth together to keep the words he was thinking of from getting loose. These dwarves, good grief. It was a good thing he’d long learned how to handle obstinacy, as being around Thorin tended to demand.

A loud and familiar-sounding _ahem_ from the doorway cut through the rabble, and Bilbo was suddenly the only one who wasn’t stooped in a low bow, not that he needed much more to know who had just showed up.

“Thorin,” Bilbo said, trying to sound surprised. He felt embarrassed more than anything considering how ridiculous he was sure he looked, but then Thorin appeared in front of him, having waved off the tailors to disperse them, who now stood along the perimeter of the room and looked on, entirely silent. “I thought you were upstairs, rehearsing.”

Thorin grunted impassively. “We are taking a break. Have you decided on your attire? Or do you desire a change in tailors as well, you tiresome thing?”

Bilbo let out a sputter, the _no_ obliterated in his haste to respond, and was swiftly reduced to gaping at Thorin like a fish. Thorin looked momentarily alarmed. “A joke,” he explained. “I was merely jesting.”

“Oh,” Bilbo said, though he was still far from relieved. Thorin was horrendous at levity; he made a mental note. “That’s…um. Alright, then.”

“Is this what you will be wearing?” Thorin asked, looking over Bilbo from head to toe.

Bilbo took a second to assess everything he was dressed in, and yes, he was inclined to comment that it was a bit much. The tunic and trousers were alright, even if both had far too much silk and gold thread for his taste, but he pictured himself walking about in the heavy cloak hanging off his shoulders and shuddered at the thought. He didn’t think he’d be able to keep from laughing at anyone else who had to trail no less than five feet of fabric behind them; lose the cloak, definitely.

“It’s currently a work in progress, Your Majesty,” one of the tailors answered for Bilbo, but Thorin didn’t seem to have heard. He had unstrung the cloak from around Bilbo’s neck and now had his hands on Bilbo’s shoulders. Bilbo held his breath and stood still, allowing Thorin to slide his hands down to grasp his upper arms, cupping the sides of his torso, skating over the folds of his clothes, as if taking his own measurements.

“You understand it is my hope that you will look your best for this,” Thorin said, the timbre of his voice unnaturally soft. There was a strange look in his eyes, perhaps fondness.

Bilbo smiled uncertainly. Maybe he wasn’t that far off about being the person being handed a crown in a few days, if Thorin had come down just to tell him specifically that in person.

“I didn’t really like the cloak, too,” he said truthfully, lifting his gaze to meet Thorin’s. The dwarf’s hands remained on Bilbo’s ribs, and Bilbo found that he didn’t mind at all. At a head taller than Bilbo, Thorin was a large and imposing presence, occupying Bilbo’s peripherals and pushing everything else out. There wasn’t much space between them; if Bilbo shifted closer, got up on his tiptoes, then maybe he could —

“It was too big for you,” Thorin noted as he eyed the garment, which had flopped into a puddle of purple behind Bilbo’s ankles. “A robe may fit better. And some jewellery would look very nice on you.”

The attention of Thorin’s eyes held Bilbo rapt. It felt somewhat flattering to be scrutinised at length like this, by a soon-to-be king, no less. Or, not that, it was just Thorin and how he was — so full of grit, so paradoxically gruff and gentle that it was unnerving at times. Now, his hands scooted fractionally lower to rest on Bilbo’s waist, as if leading him a dance, and Bilbo felt a fleeting rush of warmth.

“They were saying something about sapphires…” he supplied, holding back another smile, the rubies forgotten. Bilbo kept his focus on Thorin’s profile and the intimate positioning of his hands, shuffled his feet surreptitiously to assuage the fact that he was slightly hard. He wondered how much longer it would be within his capacity to refrain from touching back — a hand against Thorin’s cheek, the other shoved down his trousers.

He tried not to think too much about that.

Thorin did withdraw his hands then, clasping them behind his back, though his eyes remained on Bilbo, thoughtful. “I imagine they would go well with your eyes.”

“That’s what they said, too. I don’t like jewellery that much, though.”

Thorin cast a glance around at the tailors, who each stiffened in turn. Being menacing definitely had its upsides, Bilbo thought. That and being king, so to speak.

Thorin ran his hands down Bilbo’s sleeves, his tone sharply authoritative as he said, “These garments in sapphire blue, and an overcoat to match. Can it be done?”

“Yes, of course…!”

“We’ll have them ready for fitting by sundown!”

“See that you do,” Thorin said with a nod and a pat on Bilbo’s shoulder, and stepped away without another word.

It was two days later that Bilbo was seated in the throne room amid other important-looking dwarves, and wearing very lush clothes that made him think of oceans, robin eggs, the calming blue of the sky in summer. He had his mithril shirt on underneath; it felt nostalgic, and seemed appropriate, somehow. He knotted his fingers and scouted out familiar faces in the crowd, up until a loud horn sounded and everyone around him got to their feet, prompting Bilbo to follow suit.

Throughout the coronation he watched Thorin move from point to point, observing the sharpness of his features, how handsome he looked in royal blue. It wasn’t easy for all the other dwarves clustered around Thorin and moving in time with him, but Bilbo would be hard-pressed not to recognise the manner in which Thorin had always held himself, the unmistakable air of regality about his person.

Bilbo smiled and clapped and cheered when Thorin rose and stood, and did not take his eyes off of him, not even for a moment. He saw someone battered and beautiful, who had walked through war and dragon fire, who was terrible when angered but also fiercely protective of those closest to him. Bilbo saw the dwarf who turned up late on his front doorstep, the person he’d laid down his life for, whose hands had hurt him and healed him and endeared him to their touch alone. The one who Balin could call king, who was king, now.

At times, Thorin would look back into the crowd and meet his gaze, by chance or choice Bilbo wasn’t entirely sure. Whenever that happened, Bilbo wondered what he saw in return.

***

They could’ve probably gone on the way they were if Bilbo hadn’t gone and fallen ill. He had been homesick for months already, and while he was warming to the idea of staying in the dwarven kingdom for a little longer, the winter hit Erebor harder than anyone had expected. It started out as a whooping cough among the younger dwarves that spread to the adults within a few days, affecting people in the dozens. Between helping to blow runny noses and dole out chicken soup, Bilbo supposed it wasn’t much of a surprise that eventually he too was down with the bug.

He couldn’t remember the last time something like this had happened — it was never this cold back in the Shire, and Bilbo took care of himself far too well to allow for that to happen. Or at least he used to, when he lived alone and didn’t have an entire kingdom of sick, rowdy dwarves as his neighbours.

Buried beneath several blankets and far too dizzy to even sit up, Bilbo shook and shivered and clutched at himself, a nauseous feeling in his stomach. The previous day of illness hadn’t been too bad, just sniffles here and there and the occasional sneezing fit, but he’d just spent the morning retching into a bucket; Bilbo was vaguely aware of it being on the floor somewhere, close to his bed, but he felt too nauseous to seek it out even though he was sure he was going to be sick again.

Every movement he made _hurt._ Every tiny noise enhanced the pounding in his head, and he kept his eyes squeezed shut against the dim light filtering in through the curtains. The fire in his room had gone out at some point but it was beyond him to get it lit again. It was just so _cold,_ even as his face and neck and chest burned with fever.

Not for the first time, Bilbo regretted his decision not to make himself some tea before he went back to bed.

He slept and woke in intervals that drained him for an indeterminable length of time, straddling fever dream after fever dream until he surfaced to a weight on the edge of his bed and someone’s cool palm resting against his forehead.

“M’who?” Bilbo croaked, and opened an eye, just a sliver. The fever was hot at back of his throat, his tongue a foreign object inside his mouth. It still hurt to speak, or even see anything at all.

“You’re very ill,” a voice remarked gravely, every word a small explosion of pain.

“Mmph.” Bilbo squeezed his eye shut again. He’d be more surprised by Thorin being there, would ask more questions if he hadn’t already coughed his chest raw and his head wasn’t aching fit to burst.

“Is there anything I can do?” Thorin asked, almost demanding. “Anything that you need?”

_Stop talking,_ Bilbo thought, but his stomach was flipping and refusing to settle down, and Thorin’s voice really was the only thing helping to keep him level. His voice was nice to listen to, even though it was so loud and hurting his head. “Tea,” Bilbo mumbled instead, the follow-up _please_ forming on his lips but ultimately yielding to a fresh bout of pain. Oh, his _head._

Thorin’s hand vanished to the sound of footsteps leaving the room, and Bilbo clutched the blankets closer to himself, drifting about consciousness before a loud clink on his bedside table drew him back.

“It’s hot,” Thorin said, curling an arm around Bilbo’s lower back to prop him up. The rim of a cup bumped against Bilbo’s lower lip, hot vapour rising from it and up his stuffy nose. Bilbo took a sip obediently — it was good tea, very good, and made him feel slightly better almost instantly.

“Did you make this?” he asked, genuinely curious.

There was a long pause. Right. Dumb question. Kings were far too busy and important to make their own tea. But then again, that also rightfully applied to visiting unwell hobbits and asking after them and proceeding to bring them tea — why was Thorin here, again? Surely there were other matters more pressing than Bilbo to see to, treaties to be signed, dignitaries to entertain. Bilbo was just sick and Thorin was with him and that’s…a little flattering, thinking about it in that context.

“Thank you,” he said, still keeping his eyes closed but smiling to show that he meant it. Thorin would see; he needed to know that Bilbo was grateful that he was there. “It’s…very thoughtful of you. Doing all this for me.”

“You must rest,” Thorin said softly, and Bilbo realised Thorin’s mouth was at his forehead, his breath billowing against his curly fringe. “Get better soon. We shall have tea properly when you are well.”

Bilbo would’ve said something else in reply but Thorin kissed him then, a quick brand of pressure against his forehead. Thorin’s lips were dry and chapped from the winter air, peeling slightly — could use some soothing balm, Bilbo knew a home recipe for that, could share it with Thorin, and anyone else who needed it, he supposed.

“Get some sleep,” Thorin continued. He was already lowering Bilbo back down and pulling the covers over him, the movement of his hands almost reverent. There was another pause, then there was the sound of a chair creaking and he said, “I’ll be here a while longer. Tell me if you need anything else.”

Bilbo smiled weakly, and hoped that Thorin would see that too. He breathed and drifted, the pain subsiding until there was nothing beneath him or anywhere else around, no aching or illness, just suspension and boundless sleep and big black nothingness, nothing at all to feel save for Thorin’s hand tangled in his hair, stroking gently for what felt like a very long time.

When Bilbo woke it was night and the fever had broken. Thorin was gone, his space in the chair next to Bilbo’s bed, a half-empty cup of cold tea on the bedside table.

***

It was hard not to think of circumstances as _before_ and _after_ the incident with the stomach flu, though apart from mutual knowledge of the fact that Thorin had kissed him that one time, they weren’t acting any more differently than usual around each other. The only snag was that more often than not Bilbo found himself behaving carefully normal, as if it were a task to be completed and not something that came to him instinctively. Which it wasn’t, because it had reached the point that whenever Bilbo saw Thorin, the first thing he would think about was his voice, his hands, and his mouth sliding over his own —

Kissing Thorin for real would be quite something, wouldn’t it? Bilbo imagined Thorin a good kisser, gentle and patient and desirous, all at once. Hypothetically, of course; he wouldn’t actually dare testing that theory out. Bad enough that he was even entertaining the idea, really.

He didn’t want to misread Thorin’s intentions, or worse, complicate things between them, which they were unfortunately rather good at. They had a decent thing going for them for the moment; it seemed a pity to risk their current state of affairs on the infinitesimal off-chance that Thorin fancied him back and also happened to be in the mood for a shag. And even though it generally was more complex than that, Bilbo honestly _did_ want to shag Thorin, which presented a genuine problem — he learned to keep his distance after a while, if only to stop himself from getting hard at the most inopportune of times.

In the end, it wasn’t accident or coincidence that landed them in the same room alone, but Thorin’s promise of high tea, which Bilbo had been harbouring for days with equal parts apprehension and anticipation that he couldn’t explain. It was just _tea,_ but it was never just _anything_ when it came to Thorin — there would always be a way for whatever they were doing to feel uncannily intimate in nature; whether or not it was just Bilbo’s perception of how things played out was irrelevant.

“Do you need sugar?” Thorin asked from the other end of the table.

As he continued to fathom the contents of his cup, Bilbo realised he hadn’t taken more than a small mouthful since tea was served. “No, erm. I don’t take sugar,” he replied, not looking up. It was the afternoon and they were in Thorin’s chambers, which did prove to be only fractionally smaller than Bilbo’s initial quarters, but appeared to compensate for what it lacked in size with twice the amount of embellishments in gold.

Thorin let out a heavy sigh and clattered his own cup noisily in its saucer. Despite knowing better than to interpret this as having slighted him in some deep and personal manner, Bilbo winced all the same.

“Something is the matter,” Thorin said, no lilt at the end of his words; a definitive statement, an observation, not a question in the slightest. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

Bilbo froze. He glanced up and tried to look surprised, settling on a neutral expression that betrayed nothing. Or so he prayed.

“You know that you may speak freely with me, yes? I wish for there to be no secrets between us, if possible.”

Bilbo nodded, not entirely convinced. “It’s…nothing.”

Thorin lifted an eyebrow.

“That is to say, I wouldn’t want to bother you,” Bilbo amended quickly. That was partially true, at least. “I mean, you must have a lot to deal with already, I’m sure.”

“I daresay it’s bothering me more than you hesitate to tell me whatever it is,” Thorin said.

Bilbo gnawed at his lower lip, mentally weighing the pros and cons of coming clean there and then. Pros — it’d be a massive weight off his chest, and there could even be a pity lay in there for him if he managed to seem sufficiently desperate and Thorin was feeling charitable. Cons…

Well, Thorin would _know,_ and then —

(And then _what?_ Bilbo wasn’t sure he wanted to find out.)

No, it just wouldn’t do, but he didn’t want to have to lie either. Better to just stick to the bare facts, and switch to half-truths if it really came to that.

“When I was sick,” Bilbo said, taking care to check his words, “and you came to see me, that was, um. Very good of you.”

Though Thorin’s face remained impassive, the movement of his head suggested a borderline nod, indicating acknowledgement.

“I know you’ve been looking out for me a lot, what with the room and clothes and now all this —” Bilbo indicated the teaware as he spoke, and shook his head, feeling a little guilty for complaining about what was virtually free-range goodwill. Remembering Thorin’s lips on his forehead only made him more uncomfortable. “I’m grateful for everything you’re doing, Thorin. But you really don’t need to…you know. I’m pampered enough as it is.”

Thorin stared at Bilbo.

“Please say something,” Bilbo mumbled. He’d very much prefer a reprimand or being ordered to leave, anything but having to spend this long, uneventful silence under Thorin’s wilting gaze.

It looked like Thorin was considering a number of things to reply with, before finally: “You misunderstand. It’s not a matter of necessity. It never was.”

Bilbo looked up, but Thorin was pushing his chair back and standing up. He moved around the table to Bilbo’s side, looking down at him and covering Bilbo’s hand with his, and gods, oh, _gods,_ he was so close. Bilbo swallowed and shifted in his seat, not sure what to expect.

“I had hoped…before this,” Thorin began, a note of uncertainty in his voice. “That our affairs would have been settled much sooner. My meaning could have been clearer, I admit, but nonetheless.”

…alright, then. “I’m afraid I don’t follow,” Bilbo said dumbly, feeling like it as well. He probably wouldn’t be able to move if he tried.

Sliding down to a kneel, Thorin brought Bilbo’s hand to his mouth, lips barely brushing skin. “Bilbo Baggins of the Shire," Thorin murmured, his eyes falling half-closed. "I know it hasn't been long, but I ask with full conviction. I, Thorin Oakenshield, Son of Thrain, Son of Thror, would have you, and be yours, if you are willing,”

Bilbo felt his breath hitch in his throat of its own accord, and he withdrew his hand abruptly, wide-mouthed and gaping; Thorin jerked as if he’d been scalded, and was rising to his feet, saying, “I…I apologise —”

_Shut up, shut up,_ Bilbo was trying to say, but it was difficult to articulate anything while his whole mouth was mashed sloppily against Thorin’s — he didn’t even remember moving, or grabbing the lapels of Thorin’s robes to haul him closer, but Thorin was already leaning into him, cupping his face in both hands as he kissed harder, deeper, and Bilbo let himself be claimed by it, having wanted something like this to happen for ages ever since they’d laid eyes on each other.

“How long?” Thorin rumbled, as if he'd been thinking the same thing, his eyes darkening.

“Quite some time,” Bilbo confessed, this language a currency he knew they both understood. It was obvious to him now that he had been wrong about what Thorin wanted after all, though not in the way he’d have ever believed it to be.

Thorin traced the hollows of Bilbo’s neck with his finger, settling at the top button of his shirt and resting there. “I am glad…that you feel this way as well.”

Grinning, Bilbo kissed Thorin again, dragging him against himself, the chair creaking under their combined weight. Gods, Thorin was hard-bodied, and warm, and he smelled magnificent up close, tasting of tea, and spit, and, and something else that was musky and unclean, but — he liked to use an awful lot of tongue, too; interesting. Bilbo parted his lips wider, allowing Thorin to tongue-fuck his mouth with liberty, and tilted his head back with a breathy moan, arms sliding around Thorin’s waist to hold him in place.

“Unbelievable,” Thorin whispered. He leaned forward to mouth at Bilbo’s jaw, his lips charting a modest worship, his beard an experience in erotic sensation.

“What?” Bilbo asked softly.

Thorin pulled back for a moment and stared down at him with near-religious awe. His thumb rubbed against the corner of Bilbo’s mouth, the tip briefly pressing past his lips and dipping inside. “You are more beautiful than I ever imagined,” he said.

Bilbo reached up to yank Thorin down again by the biceps and kissed him frantically, the dwarf’s knees bracketing his thighs, his erection poking Bilbo in the belly. Wrapped up in the thrill of the moment, Bilbo buried a hand in Thorin’s long mane and fondled Thorin through his trousers with the other, ministering him roughly until Thorin was panting into his mouth.

“Your — your belt,” Bilbo hissed, and Thorin nodded, scrabbling at it with impatient hands and pushing both trousers and underpants down in one quick shove. His cock jutted out keenly, already thick and flushed with arousal. Bilbo wrapped his fingers around it and stroked, precome slicking his palm. Then Thorin’s mouth crashed down on his without so much as a warning, stealing his air and making it difficult to breathe.

Gods, Bilbo was so hard it hurt. If he could just touch himself, too, everything would be perfect.

“My consort,” Thorin growled, bucking into Bilbo’s hand. His kisses grew hungrier still, moving from Bilbo’s lips to his cheeks and the underside of his chin. “My love…my hobbit. My _Bilbo_ —”

Bilbo wanked Thorin as quickly as the angle of his wrist and the space between their bodies permitted, guided only by impulse and the urgent rolling of Thorin’s hips. His skin prickled, was hot beneath his shirt, but Thorin’s breath was coming out even hotter, and Bilbo breathed what he could of it in, groaning through clenched teeth. He readjusted his focus at intervals: Thorin’s hands plying his neck, Thorin’s cock in his grip, Thorin’s mouth firming against his, hm, yes.

“You’re fantastic,” Bilbo gasped. He had flung an arm around Thorin’s powerful shoulder, splaying his hand in the flat of his back. That they both still had some clothes on felt like a travesty in itself, though he figured the bedroom couldn’t be more than a couple of metres away. For what it was worth, neither of them seemed the least bit interested in making the migration for the time being.

Thorin dragged his hand down Bilbo’s chest, fingers slipping nimbly into the folds of his clothing and coming into contact with damp skin. When he found Bilbo’s peaked nipple and rolled it between thumb and forefinger, Bilbo surprised himself with an embarrassingly loud and wanton moan, gooseflesh prickling down his lower back.

He felt Thorin smiling against his cheek, a smirk that evolved into a pleased rumble as heat flooded his face. In retaliation, Bilbo reached lower to grope Thorin’s bare arse unabashedly, kneading as much taut flesh as he could contain. Thorin made a strangled sound, like several curse words strung together and bitten off. The head of his cock jutted up and bumped into Bilbo’s wrist, trailing a generous amount of precome over his fingers.

Re-palming Thorin’s length decisively wasn’t easy — he’d begun to grind into Bilbo fervently, essentially fucking the crook of his thigh, but Bilbo did try his best, ringing Thorin at the base and giving him firm, upward strokes. His own erection slid against Thorin’s, separated only by layers of fabric and the last remaining vestiges of propriety. He kissed Thorin’s neck, wet and open-mouthed, and thieved another halting breath of air as Thorin exhaled hotly in his ear.

Something clinked, and shattered on the floor just under them; Thorin had elbowed an unfortunate teacup off the table, Bilbo surmised, but they both ignored it. Thorin loomed over him, bearing down with the weight of his upper body and pushing Bilbo into the chair, locking them together, mouth sealed over his. He was unbuttoning Bilbo’s tunic clumsily, fumbling with the buttons, oh, oh; Bilbo felt cool air rushing over his chest, and large hands braced around his torso, thumbs flicking lightly at his nipples.

“I want to fuck you,” Bilbo breathed, and felt so deliciously _naughty_ for it. He wasn't the type to swear — never really saw the purpose in using rude invectives — but Thorin was large and sweaty and drop-dead gorgeous before him; Bilbo figured even the primmest of gentlehobbits had to have their own respective breaking points. He only had to think about Thorin orgasming around his cock for the aching in his loins to intensify — hardly decorous, but he’d already pleasured himself to the thought of that just the once in a moment of weakness, before this.

A tongue spilled into Bilbo’s mouth again, eagerly licking the fronts of his teeth, and he offered up his tongue as tribute, salivating at the taste of Thorin on it. “That can be arranged,” Thorin purred, sounding way too pleased with himself. He rubbed his beard against Bilbo’s cheek — it burned, and itched, and proved to connect directly with his cock — and licked a long, deliberate stripe up the shell of his ear.

Caught off guard, Bilbo hissed and twisted his fingers about Thorin’s cock, which twitched and shuddered and pulsed as Thorin came all over his crumpled tunic. Then, Thorin was backing away to a kneel, his hands sliding down Bilbo’s body and working at the buckles of his trousers. Bilbo felt his cock being fished out and swallowed down, and his skull thwacked the chair with a bodily thud as he gasped Thorin’s name.

Thorin really was all tongue, even in the process of administering a blowjob, though Bilbo didn’t really have it in him to complain. Hell, he wasn’t poised to do anything else but writhe and curse and grip the armrests of his chair, sparks skating up and down his spine. And Thorin was humming low in his chest, lips buzzing around Bilbo’s shaft, all whilst the tip of his tongue darted in and out of Bilbo’s slit, fucking his cock in a way that didn’t seem entirely proper but felt so good he couldn’t stop to think.

“Oh, _oh!”_ Bilbo squealed, which was all he could do, because this was the end of him, it had to be. He didn’t mind dying like this, teetering on the tantalising edge of orgasm with a cramping in his balls and his cock inside Thorin. Thorin’s hand shot up and clamped itself over Bilbo’s mouth, smothering his cries; refusing to be quelled, Bilbo seized him by the wrist and wrenched his hand down, drawing Thorin’s fingers into his mouth and sucking on them, three at the same time.

Thorin choked, but didn’t pull off Bilbo, only seemed to want _more_ and _deeper_ as he bobbed and tongued and sucked. Caged in by the chair, Bilbo could only manage a helpless rocking with his hips, and he moaned around Thorin’s fingers, vaguely aware of the fact that he was drooling out the corner of his mouth. He wanted to come so much, his whole body was vibrating with the need for it, and Thorin — looking at him, eyes fluttering and delirious with post-coitus, lips encircling his cock; too much, too _much_ …

There were no words for it, none at all. His hands flew to the top of Thorin’s head and hung on as he came, disengaging only when Thorin had finished swallowing and was rising to kiss him again. The air around them felt thick, but everything else was completely fine. He channelled a peculiar sense of triumph in them having made it through this in one piece, like they’d just emerged from a war; they surely looked wrecked by now, anyhow. Bilbo thought with some amusement that they probably weren’t doing it right if that wasn’t the case.

For now, he relaxed into the sensation of fading orgasm with Thorin leaning against him. He thought could taste himself somewhat in Thorin’s lazy kisses, and was gently squeezing the dwarf’s arse when Thorin sighed and asked, “What’s your favourite season?”

“Summer, I guess,” Bilbo answered, furrowing his eyebrows. “Why?”

Thorin huffed, like Bilbo was deliberately being obtuse. “We can hardly be wed if I don’t know when it should happen, can we?”

Bilbo laughed and scooted his hands higher up Thorin’s back. He tried to sit up, nipping at Thorin’s mouth affectionately. “Don’t you think that’s getting a little ahead of things?” he asked.

“No.”

Fair enough. Bilbo wasn’t able to fully convince himself with that protest either. He was kissing a king in his lap and they still had a bedroom not too far away — no such thing as _overreach,_ not now, anyway. He scraped Thorin’s chin with his fingers. Thorin kissed his eyelids. That beard of his, gods.

“I still want to finish my tea first,” Bilbo affirmed.

“Tea can wait,” Thorin grumbled, but Bilbo shook his head, holding his ground.

“Tea,” he repeated, pushing Thorin away by the shoulders. “And I think you broke my cup.”

“You could just use mine.”

“Mm, I think not. Give me a minute to get another, and then we can do whatever you want. And you might want to put your trousers back on first.”

“What for?” Thorin’s hand worried against Bilbo’s damp cock, a wicked smile curving his bearded cheek as he slid lower.

“Now wait just a minute —” Bilbo began, and his body jolted, Thorin's long digits worming into him, air stuttering out his lungs, oh, _fuck_ yes.

As he was soon starting to realise, Thorin did have a very talented mouth, indeed.

**Author's Note:**

> French kissing, yo -- it's [pretty hot](http://buffoon00.tumblr.com/post/49279573019) (NSFW art, but who am I kidding, you've only just read this). Also, [Richard Armitage's beard](http://fideliant.tumblr.com/post/91751099192). 'Nuff said.


End file.
